Was I one of those animals? Did I disappear, as the dodo and the tiger, the cat and her breasts?

French floor, socks, shirts, high heels looping.

Literature is (…) the invention of this voice, to which we cannot assign a specific origin, Roland Barthes wrote, stating that literature is that neuter, that composite, that oblique into which every subject escapes, the trap where all identity is lost, beginning with the very identity of the body that writes. Does he mean that I, as a writing subject, am able to create one of those white spots on a foreign island, where the reading subject can break new ground, find and name new spieces? Or may it be me breaking this ground, using you, the reader, as the coloniser uses the habitants?